


Stupid Questions

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:57:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But time wore on, and seconds seemed to take minutes and then hours and it began to feel like he’d been away for a month rather than a few days, away from Tokyo and his friends but mostly away from Shintarou.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Questions

**Author's Note:**

> for @redhotchiligingers
> 
> prompt: aomido + college + reuinion

The bus ride back from camp is too damn long, feels twice as long as it did on the way there. A week ago, this had seemed bearable (stupid, but bearable), a university-sponsored retreat for the men’s and women’s basketball team, a chance to bond or some shit like that while training and keeping them under the watchful eyes of the coaches. And at first it had been bearable, getting up at the early hours that Daiki hates but generally keeps anyway and dealing with the stupid freshmen (mostly by ignoring them) and running plays until they were all so tired but so practiced they could do it even halfway standing up.

But time wore on, and seconds seemed to take minutes and then hours and it began to feel like he’d been away for a month rather than a few days, away from Tokyo and his friends but mostly away from Shintarou. They’d texted when they could but it’s not the same, not without his voice and face there, and being unable to catch each other’s drifts with only text on a screen. There hadn’t been enough privacy to make a call all week, even when Daiki had tried to shoo everyone else out of the shitty cabin.

But somehow, time had moved forward; somehow he’s on his way back (somehow he’ll get there if the damn bus doesn’t break down). His knees are pressed against the seat in front of him; half the team’s asleep and the lights are low, leaving the highway beside him easily visible. Bare trees fly past him; clouds in the distance hold their position, steady defenders on the court of the sky. He can even see stars, not as many as there were out in camp (enough to make him nearly dizzy going out late at night) but way more than in Tokyo (where they’re more likely to blink and move, revealing themselves as airplanes). They’re still fifteen minutes out, and that’s discounting the traffic they’ll have to slide into when they get into the city, and discounting the train ride from the bus depot. Daiki sighs. They had better get lucky with this.

* * *

He’s exhausted when he reaches home, exhausted but still kind of wired, enough to almost slam open the door.

“I’m back,” he calls, and he’s headed for the living room before he hears Shintarou’s response.

He’s sitting on the couch flipping through one of his science textbooks; the TV is on but he probably hasn’t been paying attention to it; his eyes are locked on Daiki’s and it’s less than a second before Daiki’s leaning over the back of the couch with his arms around Shintarou’s shoulders. He can feel Shintarou’s pulse thudding against him, the warmth of his skin, the familiar shape of his neck.

“I missed you,” he breathes, hugging him tighter—Shintarou’s fingers worm their way into his hair and, oh, this is like paradise.

He’s only dimly aware of what’s going on around him, of himself even, until his stomach growls.

“There’s takeout in the fridge,” Shintarou says. “I got you pork fried rice.”

Daiki hugs him harder.

* * *

He makes short work of the fried rice, shoveling it into his mouth with the shitty but just-adequate disposable chopsticks while Shintarou studies next to him. He’s overlooking his no-food-on-the-couch rule for once (he’d looked as if he was about to say something but then thought the better of it, even moving closer to Daiki), and, well, it’s enough to make Daiki a little extra careful not to drop anything. When he’s done he leaves the container on the table and kicks back, leaning against Shintarou’s shoulder. Shintarou closes the textbook.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Daiki shrugs. “It was okay. The freshmen are still annoying.”

Shintarou smiles. His hand is on Daiki’s knee; his eyes are on Daiki’s face; a week without this has been way too long. Daiki throws his arms around Shintarou, knocking him down against the couch cushions. Shintarou’s eyes widen; his glasses are crooked but he doesn’t try to fix them.

“Let’s play for the same pro team.”

Shintarou lets out a long breath; Daiki’s not sure if Shintarou’s exasperated or amused or both (or if Shintarou even knows which he is).

“Are you saying you’ll get drafted a round after me?”

“Nah. You can just refuse to play for any team other than mine. Or maybe some team will trade to get the first two picks in a row. And they’ll choose me, and then you.”

At that, Shintarou actually does laugh. Daiki feels a bit pleased with himself, and so he waits a bit longer to speak again.

“Did you miss me, too?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” says Shintarou. “Of course I did.”

The corner of the textbook’s cover is digging into Daiki’s chest and he kind of doesn’t care, except for the fact that it’s putting unnecessary space between his body and Shintarou’s. Shintarou is clearly thinking the same thoughts; he tugs on the book and pulls it out, placing it on the edge of the coffee table as Daiki snuggles closer. They could just fall asleep here on the couch, with the TV on in the background—they’d be sore the next day, but it would be totally worth it right now. And okay, Shintarou wouldn’t get to do his evening routine and there’s no way he’d let them sleep with the takeout container on the coffee table and even this couch isn’t really big enough for both of them to stretch out on, but he wouldn’t mind terribly having to sleep on top of Shintarou (Shintarou, on the other hand, might mind).

“I don’t want to fall asleep here. Get up.”

“Yes you do,” says Daiki.

Shintarou sighs. “Daiki.”

“Fine.”

They make their way back to the kitchen with the remains of the fried rice and Shintarou’s dry coffee mug; Daiki stands at the refrigerator and watches Shintarou at the sink. One of the first things he’d noticed, when he’d begun to notice Shintarou, was his mouth, the way he presses his lips together when he’s focused on a task, homework or making a shot or scrubbing a stain from the inside of a mug. He probably doesn’t realize he does it, at least not most of the time. He’s too immersed in the task, in getting the better of whatever it is he’s up against, to realize what his face is doing. He finishes with the cup, places it in the rack, turns and catches Daiki’s eye.

“What?”

Daiki shakes his head. Shintarou tries to glare at him but his face betrays him, lips turning up at the corners and eyes softening—but he doesn’t turn away.


End file.
